The following story was published in the Utah Freedom Writers 2011 Edition
Forgotten
I am sitting, trying to block out all the other screeching sounds around me. I am used to it now, even though sometimes it drives me insane. I know why they cry, and why they whine. It is a feeling of loneliness they are tired of. Tired of being cooped up and forgotten. I was forgotten too.
I think quietly about that sweet old bed of mine. It was soft and fluffy, so fluffy sometimes I would pull on it with my mouth. It had a funny taste and it tickled my tongue. It was mine and no one else’s. Now I share everything with others.
I remember the cold water I drank every day. The shock of cold would hit my mouth and I would revel as it took away the dryness of my throat. Now I have only warm water to share. I think back on the food and the toys that were mine. The family that used to love me. Now I am alone. They no longer love me. They gave me away. I am alone.
I reminisce of the yard I had to play in, the happy memories with the children and their parents. Why can’t I forget? Did they already forget about me? Do they regret leaving me here? What did I do to deserve this?
I have been here for months now. People walk past me and try not to look at me. I have heard them say they feel bad for me. I wish they would take me away and love me. That is all I want. I just want someone I can love and for them to love me in return. That would be enough.
There are too many of us here, but not enough homes. Each time one of them gets chosen, I am happy for them but secretly I feel so much envy I feel as if I could cry out loud. I don’t have much time left. I will never find a true home. I know it in my heart.
The lady with the jangling keys walks to me and stops. She looks at me silently. I stare back, my eyes searching hers, trying to pour my soul out to hers in this one look. Tears pour out of her eyes and she crouches down and sticks her hand through the bars. She strokes my face and tells me she is sorry. Why is she sorry?
She opens the door and I get excited. Is she taking me home? Am I leaving for good? But then I can feel the sorrow around her, and I realize that I am not leaving; neither am I coming back. She leads me through a long bright hallway into a room whose smell I recognize. I stop. I do not like this room. I look at her and plead with my eyes. This room never brings happiness. She is not looking at me now, and I know her face is wet with tears again. She tugs on me and I keep walking.
A big but gentle man picks me up and places me on a table. He pets me softly and tells me he is sorry too. He quietly touches the back of my ears, and I close my eyes enjoying the moment. The woman leaves, she says she cannot watch and she kisses me goodbye. She tells me she is sorry she never found me a home, and she is sorry that I have to go away forever. Suddenly I know what is going to happen and I begin to whine. Is it fair that I have to die? What did I do that was so terribly wrong that my life is now being taken from me? I try to picture my old home and the family that left me here to die. I wonder what I could have done differently so they would have kept caring for me.
Did I not love them enough? Is that why I am here? I don’t understand why I have to die. And then I remember the kennels and the loud noises and the other dogs that are just as sad as me. How many will be brought in here after I am taken away? I want to live, I want to be loved. I feel something sting me and I see the man softly holding me down as he pulls something sharp away from me. Every fiber of my being begins to fight the feeling because I know I am dying. The man gently pets me and tells me it will all be okay.
One last whimper escapes from my throat and soon I have no energy and my eyes close as I feel the energy drain from my very soul.
Authors Note:
I had decided I was going to write a poem and I had a vague idea in my mind of several options. I started out the night by trying to become inspired. I listened to Phillip Glass’s violin concerto second movement to entice certain feelings to flow. I listened to music played by Jon Schmidt because it is inspirational and beautiful. For hours I sat playing different music and reading various selections of poetry and quotes of my own creation and of fellow writers. I felt the creativity flowing around me in the room in which I sat quietly pondering. In the back of my mind was a story of a creature that wanted to be heard. I pushed it to the back of my head because I could not bear to write it. Subconsciously I refused to write it because it was going to hurt to put together his story.
I continued throughout the night feeling as if I had my own muse sitting invisibly next to me. I was certain I was going to be able to write what I had determined to write, but each time I prepared to type the words onto my laptop, no word or thought came. I took a small break from this process to help get rid of my writer’s block. I looked online and saw a post from an animal rescue center that I keep up with. They were being shut down and many animals were going to die because of it. I couldn’t take it any longer. I had to write it. The story was going to burst out of me at any moment and I was finally conscious of the anecdote burning inside my very soul.
The moment my flesh made contact with the keyboard, the words began spilling out of me with almost no thought involved. Within minutes my heart was aching and I knew how the story must end. I had known it all along and it tore my heart into pieces. When I came to the end of the story, the part the reader and both the character come to a realization of what is going to happen, I stopped. My heart yearned and my soul ached as I silently wept for this animal. I quietly mourned the death of not only my character, but of all dogs that shared this story. My fingers were trembling now as they connected with the keyboard again. I silently pecked out the ending in hopes that this story would come alive in the hearts of others. His story had to be told. Even I could not bear to hear it because we as humans do not like to hear what makes us uncomfortable or somber. Which is exactly why I am submitting this piece. I only hope to touch the very core of the souls who read this story. It changed my heart and I plan to do whatever I can to make a difference. This is where I begin.